The Empty Grave (Lockwood & Co. #5)(8)

Lockwood stepped over the iron chains and approached the plinth.

The coffin was at waist height. With a delicate touch, as if pulling a blanket off a sleeping child, Lockwood took the unicorn drape and drew it to the foot of the coffin, where he let it fall to the floor. The lid was pristine, shimmering with reflected torchlight. It had two double clasps. Lockwood flicked them open – one, two – each falling against the coffin side with a clink that set my heart juddering.

This was the moment. If the skull’s story was true, the coffin would be empty.

Lockwood took hold of the lid and pushed it upwards. In the same motion, he jumped back beyond the iron chains.

George was right: the lid must have had some kind of concealed counterweight, because it continued to open, smoothly and soundlessly, of its own accord. It tipped up and up and over – and came to a gentle halt, hanging back at an angle.

The interior of the coffin was a slot of thick darkness, black to the brim.

Kipps and George lifted their arms. Light from their candles scooped out the slot. Now we could see that the interior was upholstered in red silk …

And filled with something. Something long, thin and covered in white linen.

For a few seconds no one spoke. Holly and I had our arms raised, flares cupped in our hands. The others were likewise frozen, rigid, breath rasping between bared teeth. We stared at the shrouded shape. It had an awful kind of gravity that held us all transfixed.

‘Well, somebody’s at home,’ Holly said in a small voice.

Kipps swore under his breath. ‘So much for that skull’s promises.’

This was a fair point. I came to life, rapped on the ghost-jar. ‘Skull!’

‘What?’ Faint green light flared sullenly within the glass. ‘This had better be good. I can’t hang around. There’s too much silver here for me.’

‘Never mind that! Look in the coffin.’

A pause followed. ‘Oh, well. Could be any old corpse in there. Might be a pile of half-bricks wrapped in sacking. I can tell you one thing: it’s not Marissa. Uncover the face and see.’

The light faded. I told the others what the skull had said. None of us much enjoyed hearing it.

‘I suppose we had better take a look,’ I said.

Lockwood nodded slowly. ‘Right … Well, it’s easy enough.’

The body of that quiet someone in the coffin was not wrapped tightly, but instead concealed by a loose cloth. Whoever pulled it back would have to step inside the chains, reach in close to the shrouded thing.

‘Easy enough …’ Lockwood said again. ‘It’s just a dead body like any other, and we’ve all seen plenty of those.’

He looked at us.

‘Oh, very well,’ he sighed. ‘I’ll do it. Stand ready.’

Without hesitation he stepped over the iron chains, reached into the coffin, took hold of a corner of the cloth and, with a fastidious movement, flicked it away. Then he jumped back. We all flinched with him. As Lockwood said, we’d seen enough decomposed bodies to want to be as far away as possible when the dreadful sight was revealed.

And it was dreadful. Only not in the way we expected.

It wasn’t decomposed at all.

Long grey hair lay thick and lush across an ivory pillow. It cradled a gaunt white face, the skin flowing like wax beneath our candlelight. It was the face of a woman – an aged, wrinkled woman, bony, with a nose curved thin and sharp like the beak of some bird of prey. The lips were closed tight; the eyes too. It was recognizably the same face as on the iron bust upstairs, only older and frailer. What was awful about it was that it didn’t appear to be long dead, but only sleeping. It had been miraculously preserved.

No one spoke. No one moved. At last a blob of hot wax from his candle dripped onto Kipps’s hand. His yelp broke the spell.

‘Marissa Fittes …’ George breathed. ‘It is her.’

‘Close the lid!’ Holly cried. ‘Close it quick, before—!’

She didn’t finish the sentence, but we knew what she meant. Before Marissa Fittes’ spirit stirred. I’d had the same thought. But I also felt a rush of anger that we’d risked so much for nothing. ‘That wretched skull!’ I said.

Quill Kipps cursed. ‘What fools we are! We’ve risked everything for this!’ He gestured wildly around the tiny vault. ‘We’ve got to get out sharpish. She won’t be happy we’ve desecrated her resting place. Come on, Lockwood! We’ve got to get out.’

‘Yes, yes …’ Of all of us, Lockwood had been the least affected by the dead woman in the coffin. He bent forward over the chains, gazing at the pallid face. ‘She seems relaxed enough so far,’ he added. ‘In fact she’s positively chilled. How did they keep her like this, I wonder?’

‘Mummified,’ George said.

‘Like the Egyptians? Reckon people still do that?’

‘Oh, sure. You just need the right herbs and oils, and natron, which is a kind of salt. Dunk her in that, it dries her out – though you mustn’t forget to remove the intestines and pull the brains out through the nose. It’s a messy business. Imagine one of Luce’s worst head colds: that’s the amount of gunk you’re dealing with. After that, you’d stuff her various cavities with—’

‘Right, so mummification is possible,’ Kipps interrupted. ‘We get the idea.’